


Proof

by lookupkate



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Idiots in Love, M/M, this is going to hurt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-15
Updated: 2015-07-15
Packaged: 2018-04-09 10:23:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4344833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lookupkate/pseuds/lookupkate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John finds a file on his laptop that Sherlock made. Inside are the truths of how Sherlock feels about him and how Sherlock believes he feels.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Beginning

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yarnjunkie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yarnjunkie/gifts).



Number one:

John said he looked you up on the Internet and was immediately dismissive and insulting. He didn't believe your methods then but even when he did he continued to criticize your website. (Remember the hit counter incident.)

_____

John was bloody sick and tired of his computer freezing. It wasn't one of the newer models, that was true, but for god's sake it should be able to run without having to be restarted everyday. 

After pulling a box of biscuits from the cabinet he settled on the sofa and set it on his lap, opening it and starting the arduous task of cleaning out old pictures and files. It was amazing how much digital detritus could be accumulated in two years alone, how much information once thought indispensable was now useless. 

There were three whole folders of pictures of him with Mary. Which was a strange thought to have, even as the folders were named something along those lines, as that wasn't even her name. Elizabeth. Elizabeth was the Christian name of the woman he'd married, the woman who'd had a child with another man and shot his best friend.

He took the cursor and highlighted the folders, not hesitating a moment before clicking the continue button to delete them permanently. He was bitter over the way things ended, her being shipped off to America after giving Mycroft some supposed invaluable information, but he wasn't sad. He didn't regret it all going downhill, let alone his role in it. She bloody shot Sherlock.

He shook his head and took out a biscuit. He should eat more. He needed to gain back a bit more weight, the stress of helping Mycroft and Sherlock take down his supposed wife and dismantle the last pathetic bit of Moriarty's goon squad had brought on another relapse and his PTSD had taken a toll on his appetite and ability to keep food down.

He ate two biscuits and dusted his hands off on his denims before going to the file labeled trash, the 't' lowercase, and opening it. A friend in uni had taught him that trick, creating a trash file and storing sensitive data in it, and he always kept his porn there. He didn't know why he felt guilty having pornography on his own laptop. He was an adult after all and no one besides Sherlock, who no doubt knew of the file, ever used it. Perhaps it was his British upbringing. That sort of thing was always looked down upon.

He clicked through the videos and deleted all but the few that were guaranteed to get him off in a hurry and then stopped, perplexed at something he hadn't created. A word document titled 'proof'.

He hesitated before opening it, worried that it was something Sherlock had written up about Mary. There was plenty of proof that she wasn't who she said she was and he really didn't feel like looking through it. 

He clicked anyhow, curiosity and all. It loaded and the first line said everything he needed to know.

'PROOF THAT JOHN WATSON DOES NOT, AND NEVER WILL, LOVE YOU'


	2. Number One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We go back in time to see how the list started.

''PROOF THAT JOHN WATSON DOES NOT, AND NEVER WILL, LOVE YOU'

 

If you are reading this it's because you've gone and done one of the most foolish things you've ever done. Not only that, you've done it again. Congratulations on being a complete and utter fool and falling in love, for the millionth time, with John Watson. 

Thankfully you've gone and complied yourself a list of all the reasons why this will end here. A list of situations that prove that John Watson will never return the sentiment. Read them, and read them again, and get your head straight.'

Sherlock set the laptop next to himself on the crowded sofa and curled into a ball, arms wrapped around his legs and head tucked to his chest. He didn't want to be writing this list. What he wanted was the complete opposite. He wanted to be writing a list of reasons why John DID love him, a list of moments that proved his devotion. 

That was never going to happen.

He closed his eyes tightly and tried to remember the first night, the first day he'd spent with John. Back then he thought there was a chance, John had hit on him after all. If anyone knew that sexual attraction didn't lead to love it was him, however, and he'd quashed the attempted coupling immediately. Somehow he felt that John was the one for him but that hadn't turned out to be true.

He looked up at the ceiling and blinked several times before pushing the wedding invitations off the top of the laptop and beginning again.

'Number one:

John said he looked you up on the Internet and was immediately dismissive and insulting. He didn't believe your methods then but even when he did he continued to criticize your website. (Remember the hit counter incident.)'

John didn't know him then, had no sentimental attachment, so he was telling the truth. He thought Sherlock was preposterous, thought he was exaggerating his expertise. In short, thought him a liar.

That small dismissive move, the face that poked fun at him, was only the beginning. John Watson had no respect for his feelings, and that was a fact. 

There was a knock at the street level door and Sherlock was drawn from his thoughts, closing the document quickly as footsteps fell on the stairs, and moving it to the trash. It was a stupid idea anyways, making a bloody list. The door to the flat flew open and Mary grinned at him.

"There it is," she said, walking over and holding her hand out. "You haven't been looking through John's pornography again, have you? You know he doesn't like that."

Sherlock looked down at the laptop and then back at Mary. How? How was it possible that he hadn't noticed that he'd been typing on John's laptop? He felt himself slipping and swallowed hard before handing it over, promising himself he'd empty the trash the next time he had access to the laptop.

"Of course not," he replied smoothly. "His preferences are dull."

Mary took the laptop and held it to her chest. She smiled at him, the same smile as when she told him he didn't understand people. She might have thought it kind but pitying was closer. Sherlock didn't call her on it, sticking to playing the fool. It was an interesting role for a man so brilliant, but she believed it wholeheartedly.

"Sherlock, you know you can't keep using our things," she said softly. "You've got your own computer."

'Our things'. What a crock. It was John's laptop and, yes, the two of them would soon be married but that didn't mean everything that was his was now theirs...oh. 

Sherlock looked to the floor when he realised it. She was saying it because she knew how it would make him feel. Christ, the woman was cruel. 

"We'll see you for dinner tomorrow night, yeah?" She asked.

Sherlock bit his tongue so hard he tasted blood, and let her go, the familiar 'yeah' she'd picked up from John hanging in the air like a bad smell. Was that bit intentional? How far would she go to prove ownership? On second thought, that was a stupid question. How far would HE go? Far enough to copy John's speech patterns? If it would prove they were together then yes, absolutely. 

Sherlock stood and marched the short distance to his bedroom then knelt and pulled a small wooden box from below his bed. He fiddled with the lock until it snapped open and pulled out the white cotton vest John forgot in the laundry a week prior when he'd come over with a load that wouldn't fit in his washer. Mrs Hudson hadn't noticed him snatching it from the basket.

He held the vest to his face and closed his eyes, licking his lips once before breathing deeply. A shuddering breath left his chest and he collapsed against his bed with a sigh. Maybe he should keep up the list, just maybe.

"He doesn't love you," he whispered. "He doesn't love you. He doesn't love you."


End file.
